


Reevaluation

by GiftsofGab



Series: Another Way [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: BoS, Brotherhood of Steel - Freeform, F/M, Gen, Romance, Synths, railroad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-08 21:23:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12262356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GiftsofGab/pseuds/GiftsofGab
Summary: With one of her closest comrades a synth, Scribe Haylen is suspected of being a Railroad sympathizer- but by the right people.





	1. Signal

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation of my piece "Rehabilitation", but can be read as a stand-alone, as "Rehabilitation" is summarized briefly and mentioned throughout. Please do read it though! :)

Autumn made being away in the Commonwealth more bearable. In old calendars or magazines, she had seen pictures of the way the leaves would change here and in Capital Wasteland. They took her breath away, but they were only pictures, and the leaves had lost their beauty with generations of radiation affecting the plant life. As much as she wanted to pick apples and enjoy whatever hot chocolate was, there were still some comforts of the fall around her in all seasons: campfires by which to sleep at night, her uniform’s required sweater, hiking until her feet hurt…

From the top of the police station, she watched a few ever-brown leaves float across a reservoir. She leaned on the railing and breathed deep, a small trace of petrichor still in the air from the night before. The sun was just beginning to rise, and she nursed a cup of warm coffee as the orb shone orange across the Wasteland.

Once she had finished her drink, she stepped inside the police station and descended the steps.

“Scribe Haylen,” called a fellow soldier as she reached the main floor.

“Knight Rockwell,” Haylen replied, nodding to greet him. She moved to refill her cup at a small table in the center of the station’s lobby.

“We picked up a muffled emission on the radio. The Paladin has asked if a few of us could investigate, since it’s just around Cambridge.”

“Sure,” she said, stopping the coffee’s flow before trying to quickly down what she had already poured. “Let me grab my radio.”

In the field behind the Cambridge Police Station, Haylen and two Knights walked with their radios, waving them about, trying to follow the rogue signal. All they heard was static and an occasional “help” from a man’s voice, but no matter where they moved, the signal seemed to remain poor. A slow, steady beeping played. Perhaps the recording device was the problem, Haylen pondered.

Far to her left was one recruit searching a broken-down vehicle, and a few hundred yards to her right was another searching the remains of a building. Haylen was investigating a fishing shack that was half underwater in the reservoir she often overlooked. Her team had cleared it of Mirelurks and radioactive barrels some time ago. There was no one to be found inside, and no device emitting a signal. She stepped out, avoiding getting her boots muddy, and looked towards a bridge that lead to the Poseidon Reservoir hydroelectric plant.

She approached the bridge from its side, clipping her radio to her belt as she prepared to climb the slope to its topside. There was a shuffle beneath the bridge in front of her. She froze, listening.

Haylen leaned to peer under the structure and saw a safe, as well as a tattered sleeping bag. She took up her radio, still clipped to her belt, and hit it with her palm. When the rate of the blinking light atop did not change, she clicked it off to investigate without the beeping.

The sun offered more than enough light to illuminate beneath the bridge, yet she found nothing more than the safe. She listened at the door of the metal container, but there was no radio emission from within. She tugged at its door anyway, but it would not budge, so she turned away and put her hands on her hips to think. “Maybe I could reverse-engineer a booster to pick up the signal better,” she thought aloud.

Suddenly, Haylen was grabbed from behind and pulled into a space that she had thought was the brick wall holding up the bridge. She fell backwards into darkness and the bricks closed back before her. She was released and she scrambled on her knees to try to open it, but the sun was gone entirely from the space and there was no source of light whatsoever.

There were sounds within the hidden room under the bridge- the scuff of a shoe on the slippery dirt floor, the click of a weapon being loaded, then…

“Howdy.”

Haylen opened her mouth to scream but a firm hand found its way over her cheeks while she was still gasping. A man’s grip held her mouth closed as she tried to hum out shrieks from behind it. She clawed at his arm in the darkness, but her gloves made it difficult to do any damage with her nails. “It’s okay, shh, it’s okay,” the disembodied voice reassured her. “I won’t hurt you.” Despite what he had said, the Scribe’s eyes widened greatly as she felt the end of a square-barreled laser pistol push into her gut and meet the underside of her sternum. She wanted to faint.

She asked herself how she could end up here- a stupid kid with dreams of traveling and seeing fun sights, only to be shot, or worse, in a secret room under an old bridge where no one would ever find her. She almost laughed at how silly she had been to imagine a life full of grand adventure only to die here.

“As long as you don’t make a peep, we’re golden. Okay?”

Haylen nodded with the hand over her mouth. After a few moments, it loosened its grip then released her face. The gun remained against her stomach.

She whispered out her pleas. “Please, sir, for the lo-”

“Don’t worry. I’m keeping my end of the bargain as long as you do. I just want to talk.”

“Okay,” she said nervously.

There was the rustling of cardboard, then the fizz of a match resounded in the quiet space as its flame illuminated the immediate area. She saw she was in a brick room, maybe 6 cubic feet. She watched as the match met the wick of a candle, then she followed the hand from the lightsource to its owner. A medium-build man in a jean jacket and black slacks stood before her. He waved the match out then ran his free hand through his short blond hair in the candlelight.

Haylen could say nothing, but saw her eyes reflected in a pair of black lenses on the face of the stranger.


	2. Invitation

“You’re Scribe Haylen, correct?” The voice was casual and crackly.

She gave no response other than looking away, which was enough for him.

“Well, stranger,” he continued, “I have some questions for you.”

“I won’t tell you anything about the Brotherhood,” she stuttered.

The man gave a quick laugh. He probably knew any information she could offer him anyway. “No, just about you. Your favorite movie, where you get your hair done,” he scratched his neck with the back of his hand. “How you feel about synths.”

She squinted. Her mind was racing. Was this some sort of test of her loyalty to the Brotherhood? Eight months before, she had found her former Paladin and her friend Nora in the tunnels of the Old North Church. Rhys had saved all their lives, as he took pity on Danse and spared him and the Railroad, distracting the other Brotherhood soldiers and allowing for an escape. Had someone found out she and Rhys had lied?

Haylen swallowed and said, “Synths are an abomination. They are a product of man’s arrogance and overuse of technology.” The lines were too rehearsed. She worried they might come across as insincere.

“And what about Paladin Danse?” The stranger’s features were serious in the dark.

Haylen’s heart skipped. She was scared for Danse’s safety, and Nora’s, if someone else had known he was a synth. She thought the Railroad could get him out of danger, but it would seem he was found out. “Paladin Danse is dead,” she started before suddenly putting her own hand to her mouth. “Oh, my goodness.” She remained ladylike, even in potential danger. He almost smiled about it. “You’re with the Railroad,” she whispered.

A muscle in his temple flexed. “What? No, I’m not.”

“You are- I saw you in the Old North Church with Danse and Nora!”

“N-no,” he persisted. “I just happen to know about Danse and his… condition.”

“Pretty sure that was definitely you in the stairwell that day.”

Deacon pursed his lips and moved them around his face for a long while before finally admitting, “Damn, I got a face change and everything!”

“A face change?”

“I underwent plastic surgery since then. Almost exclusively so you and Rhys wouldn’t recognize me.”

“Oh,” she winced in slight embarrassment for him. “That was an awful lot of trouble, especially considering it was the sunglasses that gave you away.”

“Shit!” he laughed out. He removed his lenses and folded them into the pocket of his denim jacket. His eyes were still obscured in the dark, but she could tell they were light in color and mood.

“They’re all I really noticed that day,” she said, “but you know about Danse, so I assumed…” He waved her words away. “So, what- am I some sort of hostage? They won’t negotiate for me, so don’t waste your time.”

“I told you,” he said, moving the laser pistol in her gut slightly back, for her comfort. “I just want to know about you.”

“Name’s Amanda, I was raised in Capital Wasteland, my dad was a carpenter, I like cats more than dogs, and I’m allergic to shellfish.”

“Ew,” he started, “who likes cats more than dogs?”

Haylen blinked slowly as if she were getting more than a little annoyed, threatening gun to her stomach or not. “Can we get this over with- or can you at least just shoot me?”

He smiled at her. He liked her chutzpah. The gun was put away into its holster on his hip. She thanked him. “You’re not trying to get me to join the Railroad, are you?”

“Well, okay, fine,” he beamed, “but only if you ask nicely.”

She may have had one friend who happened to be a synth, and it may have made her question everything about her service to the Brotherhood every day since, but she was no traitor. “I’m not joining you wahoos. For one, I don’t like synths,” she said arrogantly, waving her nose in the air. “Two, I’m not about to turn my back on the faction that has given me so much.”

“So much? They gave you that sweater, didn’t they?”

She gasped, looking down at her attire. She thought she looked good in red. “Listen, mister-”

“Deacon.”

“Whatever. I’m not saying another word, so you can just send me on my merry way. I won’t say anything about your gross little tunnel- not until you have a head start anyway. You helped Danse, and I appreciate it, but I don’t owe you anything.”

“What if I give you an update on him?”

She made a sound to speak, then stopped short and thought about his offer. “If there’s an update, that means he’s safe… I think.” She tried to work out the reasoning in her mind.

“Oh, come on, it’s super juicy,” he almost sang.

Haylen tapped both feet rapidly and groaned as she wrestled with her thoughts. “I don’t know!” she said, finally. “Let me think about it.”

“Okay.”

“‘Okay’? Really?”

“Yeah, okay.” He moved her aside then placed his ear against the wall that would open to the underside of the bridge.

“What is this place anyway?” she asked. She had noticed a waist-high wooden door behind where he was standing.

“The Railroad digs and discovers secret tunnels as we need them.” He cupped his ear at the wall.

“Does this one go to the Police Station?”

He grew impatient with the interruptions as he tried to listen for the Knights still searching for the radio signal outside (which he had remotely turned off as soon as he pulled Haylen into the tunnel). “No way. Too risky. This one goes-” He stopped short. “Somewhere secret. Hence, ‘secret tunnel.’ Now, if you’re ready to go…” He motioned towards the wall, which opened when he had made a movement she could not see in the darkness.

Sunshine flooded the small room. Haylen squinted in the bright light and stepped out timidly. She looked back and was caught off-guard by his crystal blue eyes. He handed her a small, round device with a switch in the center. “How do you know I won’t tell the others about this place?” 

“I told you- it’s a really juicy update.” Deacon winked at her. Her cheeks went pinker than usual and her patches of freckles stood out. He had noticed them several times before when tailing Danse’s old crew when they first arrived in the Commonwealth. They mostly stood out when she was talking to Rhys. Deacon flashed Haylen a quick grin, then the brick wall slid closed seamlessly.

She would never have been able to tell it was a door from the outside. Left standing in the autumn breeze, she heard a Knight call out for her in the distance. She returned a greeting then looked down at her sweater. She crinkled her nose in annoyance, then trudged to find her fellow soldiers in the field.


	3. Update

“Alright, Rockwell, thanks for your help. I’ll finish up here.” At her desk in the police station, Haylen was transferring physical paperwork into a terminal for ease of sharing with the Prydwen.

“No problem, Scribe,” the young man replied cheerily. Everyone liked Haylen- as a friend, much to her dismay. The Knight bid her goodnight and headed for his bunk.

When the last entry had been put into the computer, Haylen shut down the device and glanced around the station. Her team inside was asleep. Just beyond the lobby door, there would be a Knight on watch, as well as a few recruits on the guard platforms in front of the station.

Haylen took up a leather backpack and threw it over one shoulder then quietly climbed the inner steps of the station and exited through the roof door. Creeping to the side of the building, she gauged the jump to a neighboring fire escape and went for it.

It was just after midnight. The autumn breeze blew through her strawberry hair as she removed her uniform hood. She pulled the backpack around to her front and placed the cap inside. She descended the fire escape and headed towards the bridge.

When she reached the tunnel, she took out the small switch Deacon placed in her hand the week before. The Knights had asked if she had found the source of the transmission they had been searching for, but she lied and said she had no idea who sent the signal or why it shut off never to be heard again. Under the bridge, beside the safe, Haylen clicked the small switch.

The wall slid open and she flipped on a flashlight and shined the light around the inside of the small room. She stepped in and threw the switch again, closing the entrance behind her. The short wooden door on the opposite wall wasn’t locked and she crawled through it.

Beyond the door, the tunnel was tall enough for her to stand, but only just barely. Here and there as Haylen walked, she had to crouch or dodge large roots. She walked at least 30 minutes at a casual pace and grew hot, despite the damp passage. Haylen crossed her arms and grabbed her sweater at the waist then pulled it over her head. Underneath was a black tank top, not low-cut but form-fitting. Her Scribe outfit never showed off what she had, and she partially blamed her failed loved life on this. Or maybe it was just because she was surrounded by thick-headed commandos, she thought.

She tied the sweater around her waist and continued for another 10 minutes before coming across the tunnel’s end. There was another door, this one steel. She could hear muffled music and chattering beyond it.

“What am I doing here?” she asked herself, hesitating to knock. Guilt suddenly washed over her. If her officers found out she had been speaking to a member of the Railroad and left him alive, or that she was pursuing him for information about her supposedly dead former Paladin, she would be discharged for sure. Danse himself would probably reprimand her for this, a thought at which she smiled lightly. She tightened her ponytail and turned to go back to the station.

The door behind her creaked loudly as it opened, and a flurry of sounds filled the tunnel around her. She swung back around. Deacon stood in the doorway, holding the door open wide. He was surprised when he saw her there, but when she turned to face him, he hid it well between a sly grin and the sunglasses that had returned to his face. He didn’t have to say anything. Haylen raised a brow at his smile. “Oh, shut up,” she sneered, embarrassed to have been caught showing up anywhere with a Railroad agent and no gun in her hand. Deacon only gestured for her to enter.

The Scribe reluctantly passed him and stepped into a warehouse. Her face lit up in astonishment.

It was like a lively town square inside. She was in an underground area, but much of the building was caved, revealing the main floor above, which was as full of activity as this one. Industrial lights buzzed on the high ceiling, illuminating nearly one hundred bustling agents. Terminal keyboards clacked, people called to one another from across the large building, an Assaultron stomped around spouting off numbers, all to the tune of Jackie Wilson over several radios.

“Like it?” Deacon asked, noticing her expression, then boasted, “No windows. Two floors of concrete fortifications. Terminals, paper supplies, food storage… TV’s busted, though, so I’ll be complaining to the landlord,” he quipped.

“I’m amazed you’ve kept this under wraps,” she gaped.

At a metal desk just beyond the tunnel’s door, a man in a blue coat and flat cap rolled his chair backwards and spun around to greet Deacon. “Here’s the file on the latest package.”

“Thanks, Drummer,” Deacon said, taking the folder. He mimed scratching at his chin. “Beard’s coming in nice, man. Lookin’ good.”

Drummer swatted away the compliment and smiled. “Who’s the dame?” he asked, looking to Haylen.

“New recruit,” Deacon said proudly. The Scribe waved awkwardly. Drummer nodded, trying not to be too obvious about taking note of her figure. Deacon introduced his friend as Drummer Boy. The agent gave a passive wave before rolling back to his desk.

“Well, let me give you the grand tour.” Deacon took the awestruck Haylen through the basement, explaining which terminals did what, who a few agents were, where they had salvaged some furniture...

The whole situation was strange. Her faction’s sworn enemy, second only to the Institute, was trusting her to be in their base. Or was Deacon the only one who knew her affiliation?

The Railroad agent led Haylen up a set of steps that the Railroad had built to reach the ground floor. They approached a closet whose wall was partially removed so it served as a sort of counter for concessions. Deacon asked an agent behind the counter for 2 Nuka Colas. He took them to a wooden table and sat, motioning for Haylen to do the same.

“So, about our friends,” he began.

Haylen was certain there would be a catch. She would have to defect from the Brotherhood and prove her Railroad loyalty by bringing Deacon the core of Liberty Prime, or she might be asked to retrieve files from Maxson’s terminal, or she would have to blow the police station to smithereens, or-

The pop of the bottle’s cap snapped her from her daydream.

“Mike and Wanderer.”

“Sorry?”

“Well, Michael,” Deacon corrected himself. “Part of our synth rehabilitation is giving out new names. And those who become agents get a codename.”

“I see,” she said, wondering if the name Michael truly suited Danse.

“Let’s start at the beginning.” Deacon took a swig of his cola then began his tale. He told Haylen about how Danse and Nora came seeking asylum from the Brotherhood, how Danse had undergone plastic surgery to keep hidden, and how the two had run away somewhere into the Wastelands together, leaving everything Nora knew about the Institute in a letter.

He saw the despair in Haylen’s eyes. She would miss her friends dearly. She hadn’t known they left. Deacon had never liked seeing her sad. When he would spy on her regiment for the Railroad over the last year, he had watched her awkward attempts at relationships with her two closest comrades Danse and Rhys. He had seen her cry when she thought no one was around. He had seen her vomit after having to kill a monstrous dog with a melee weapon. He had seen her pinch her cheeks to make them rosy when certain male officers would approach, and the frown after they passed her without a care. She was an emotional thing, but hid it well from her fellow soldiers. Of course, she had no idea Deacon was ever around.

“But hey,” he said cheerily. “I haven’t gotten to the best part.”

She perked up a bit, hopeful for some good news. “Tell me.” She was rolling the bottle between her palms and only sipped it a few times. Deacon leaned forward on the table atop his crossed arms.

“Our friends are more than friends.” He wore a smile but his heart didn’t.

“I’ll be,” she said, setting the cola on the table and leaning back. “Never thought Danse would ever settle down.”

Deacon, too, thought it was uncharacteristic for the former Paladin to give in to a romantic relationship. Without the Brotherhood to fill his every thought, it was finally a possibility for the first time in Danse’s life. Deacon had been jealous when he found out. Nora was really something. Her stories brought him closer to the Old World, a place and time he wished he could experience himself. He would never hear a live, first-hand account of it again. He would never get to tell her more lies about adventures he never had in an attempt to one-up her incredible tales.

“Where are they now?” Haylen asked.

“We’re not sure. It’s been five months since they left. We moved safehouses, making it more difficult to contact us, but I don’t doubt their abilities to do so if they wanted to. I think they just needed to move on.”

Haylen nodded, watching bubbles float to the top of her drink. “I gotta say, I had no idea the Railroad had so many members.”

“Right after Wanderer left, we saw a huge spike in recruits. People told us about a broad traveling with a brute. She would tell them about the Railroad and we were able to find people when they started showing interest in the cause. Even on her way out of the Commonwealth, she was helping us out, though I bet she was doing it behind Mike’s back.” He imaged Danse scolding Nora and it entertained him.

They sat talking for an hour more. Deacon explained how the rankings worked and which agents did what. He suggested she’d make a great tourist to start out. Haylen scoffed. She eventually felt comfortable enough to work on her cola. She was more interested in hot drinks, especially as the season went on, but she appreciated the Nuka nonetheless.

There was a small office that overlooked the warehouse. Haylen noticed a red-haired woman watching her and Deacon, but the Scribe tried not to stare. Eventually, a bell rang somewhere in the building and the activity of the agents diminished immediately.

“Lights out in 20,” Deacon told her. “Feel like a sleepover?”

“Yeah, right,” she huffed and stood at the table. She started heading down the stairs to the basement level. Deacon followed, grabbing their bottles and bringing them to the concession counter before catching up to Haylen.

When they reached the steel door to the tunnel, he held it open for her. “Come back first thing in the morning?”

“Are you crazy?” She said in genuine surprise. “I came here because I wanted news about Da- about them. Look, I appreciate you telling me, but that’s all I needed. You know my affiliation, and,” she hesitated. He knew all too well the tells of bluffing, and he could read her like a book. Haylen straightened and put on a snooty face. “I don’t want to have to report all this to my higher-ups. So, if you don’t want to see what would have happened at the Old North Church, I suggest you don’t contact me again.” She gave one hearty nod. Deacon wanted to laugh, but he kept his face straight and agreed.

“Sure you won’t come back? You could gather more information for Maxson.” He was careful not to let anyone else around hear. “There’s a treasure trove of sensitive data here. Scribe like you could easily get into our terminals and files.”

She wore a haunted face. Though Deacon took it so lightly, what he said was true. But he saw through her. Haylen was kind, and she was more curious than was good for someone in her position. 

She almost said “maybe”, but she lifted her nose even higher and refused to return before marching down the tunnel. Deacon watched the ugly sweater that was tied around her waist jostle as she marched away.


	4. Red

“Deacon,” called Drummer Boy from the tunnel entrance. He was lounging with his feet up on his desk. It was a lazy day for the runner- someone who, as Deacon had explained to Haylen the week before, gives other agents a head’s up as to whom wanted to speak with them. He hated his job, not having been promoted since his entry into the faction, but he still believed wholeheartedly in the cause. That, and the hopes for a new position, kept him going. He looked back to the clipboard in his lap after looking over his shoulder at the open tunnel door. “Your girlfriend’s back.”

Deacon grinned and set down the novel he had been reading. It was late in the evening and he was winding down at his work station. His blond wig was absent today but he reached up to brush it back in his forgetfulness, only to smooth over his bald head with his palm. He flapped his jacket to straighten it out as he approached the tunnel from his desk on the far side of the basement. “Amanda.”

Being addressed by her first name was so foreign to her, and it added to the frazzle caused by Drummer’s rude introduction of her. It had been years since she heard her first name aside from reciting it for an officer asking for her full rank. It was also strange to be greeted by a bald man rather than the blond one she had been meeting.

“To what do we owe the pleasure?” he asked with an air of having expected her to come back.

The same lively buzz filled the safehouse as her last visit the week before. Haylen looked around, still in amazement at the Railroad’s numbers and resources, while saying, “It’s nothing. I just… was wondering if you had more information about our friends.”

He bit the side of his lower lip with a wide smile. “Follow me.” He led her up to the main level once more, and they sat in two lounge chairs. Deacon was in a red one that Nora had favored between missions for the Railroad. He ran his hands down the chair’s arms and tried to focus on the present. He looked Haylen up and down behind his shades. She wore her uniform pants and brown belt, but with a white blouse. The sweater, he imagined, was stuffed inside the backpack at her feet. Haylen was pretty- he admitted this to himself the first time he’d spied on her squadron over a year ago. He had rooted for her when she tried to rope Rhys, and felt for her when she was rejected. He mostly thought it was a pity she had to cover her strawberry hair with the uniform hood, but he admired her locks today, as she had also put the hood away for their visit.

“Is there anything else you can tell me?” Haylen asked of her old friends. “Maybe they’ve gotten in contact? Or someone saw them out there?” Her voice was full of hope, but Deacon had no good news to give. He was certain Danse and Nora were fine. As if Nora wasn’t tough as nails on her own, Danse was a force to be reckoned with and would never let anything happen to her.

Deacon laughed and wagged a finger. “No, no- it’s your turn.”

“My turn?”

“To tell me some news.”

“I told you,” she said, picking her backpack up from the floor and starting to put on one strap, “you’ll get nothing about the Brotherhood out of me, and if you think you ever will, I can just-”

“Whoa, there,” he said, motioning for her to put the bag away. “I don’t. I promise. I just wanted to know about what happened at the Old North Church.” Eight months ago, the Brotherhood had gotten word of the location of the Railroad headquarters, and the agents had all successfully escaped thanks to Haylen and Rhys throwing their faction off the scent.

She settled down and let the bag slip back by her feet.

“I’m surprised you weren’t kicked out too. Did Rhys really take the fall for you?”

“Actually,” she started, putting a stray hair from her ponytail behind an ear, “He was promoted to Paladin.”

“Whoa,” Deacon said, brows lifting above the frames of his sunglasses. “They just giving out ranks over there? Even for traitors?”

“No,” she replied. Haylen had a difficult time pinning down Rhys’s motives. He saved her friends that day when he had sent the Brotherhood of Steel away, but it was not as a favor to her. Haylen continued, “He… threatened another Knight named Granger who soon found the stairwell wasn’t collapsed like we had said. Rhys kept him quiet, then paid him off later. Granger passed away anyway, on a mission a month later,” she said solemnly. “No one else found out, and before a second team could be sent, Rhys blew up the tunnel himself when he went back alone.”

Rhys had potential to be a good man. His words had often cut her like knives, but his actions shouted much louder. He had protected her friends when it mattered, and went to lengths to continue doing so. She fell for him once, but now she revered him as a dutiful friend towards Danse when she had once doubted him. She wondered if he might someday stand up for her like she did their former Paladin.

“So all of our stuff is still down there,” Deacon pondered. “This is actually really great news.”

Haylen frowned. She hadn’t meant to give the Railroad an advantage. They were enemies, yet the atmosphere of the new headquarters gave her no sense of danger. She felt comfortable, especially with Deacon guiding her around.

Haylen’s thoughts were interrupted when she noticed the red-haired woman from her last visit approaching. The woman was in the upper office before, leaving Haylen to believe she was in charge. The thought of the Railroad leader marching over and kicking her out (or more likely, killing her on the spot) made Haylen’s mouth go dry.

“Deacon,” the woman said.

“Heya, boss,” he beamed.

“We’ve got a package that needs transporting. Go see Stockton.”

“Sure thing, Dez. The new recruit can come along!” he said, clapping a hand on Haylen’s shoulder.

Dez’s stern look shifted from Deacon to the Scribe. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Desdemona. I’m in charge around here.” She extended a hand to Haylen who met it firmly and parted her lips for an introduction.

“Red!” Deacon interrupted. “Let’s get this mission finished quick so we can get back in time for breakfast. Don’t want to miss out on pancakes and Brahmin sausage.”

“Well, Agent Red,” Dez said, squinting incredulously at Deacon. “I look forward to an interview when you return. We could use more tourists.”

“Right,” Haylen said, nodding. Desdemona wished them luck then left for her office.

Deacon turned to Haylen. “You weren’t going to give her your real name, were you?”

“Do I really look that stupid?” She crossed her arms. “I would have thought of a fake one.”

“Well, like I said, agents get codenames here, so it’s best I took over anyway.”

“I should get back so you can run the mission. I’m sorry if you get in trouble since she won’t see me again.”

“Naw, c’mon,” he said, cocking his head to one side. “Come along.”

“What?” she scoffed.

“It’ll be easy! We head out and get you back by morning.”

“I have a mission tomorrow,” she argued. It was true, she was expected for work bright and early the next day. Old World technology was hard to come by, and she had a quota to meet in finding technical documents for her squadron.

“Bunker Hill is just across the way,” he whined like a child.

“Bunker Hill?” she asked.

“You’ve never been?”

“I… I’ve seen it from the air, and I’ve passed it. I… No.”

“Do you want to?”


	5. H2

Having finished speaking with Old Man Stockton, Deacon approached Haylen from behind. She was too awestruck by the monolith near Bunker Hill’s entrance to notice him, even when he coughed to get her attention. He followed her with a smile as she circled the monument.

As much as she would regret an early start the next day after a sleepless night, she could not pass up the opportunity to see this new place. It was why she signed up with the Brotherhood of Steel in the first place. Sure, she traveled plenty, but where there were sights to see, there were super mutants to crush her bones, or robots to turn her to ash. Rarely was there a chance to see someplace calm, and even that almost always meant visiting a farm for supplies (which Haylen hated, as the Brotherhood more often demanded them than asked), but rows of vegetables and metal shacks were only so interesting. This was a real treat- exploring a calm, unique settlement with this amazing structure to take in.

“You can go all the way to the top.”

Haylen looked at him in surprise, then her eyes darted to the tower’s entrance. She almost stepped towards it. “So,” she said, turning away from the structure, “should I wait here?”

“We’re going to meet at a church just up the road. There’s a synth that we’re moving to a safehouse.”

“Whoa, hold on,” she said with wide eyes and hands up. “I can’t be any part of that. I could be recognized and reported, I could get hurt and my team would see the injury tomorrow, and I’m not even interested in helping a synth anyway.” Her voice sharply decrescendoed on the last bit, keeping the mission secret despite her objections, which Deacon appreciated.

“Don’t be like that. Come with me.” He knew the trip would be an educational experience for her, an opportunity to show her how human synths could be. He hoped the one they were asked to help was kind and didn’t reinforce any of her stereotypes.

“Deacon,” she said with a frown, “I can’t. It’s too risky.”

“Here.” He took off his sunglasses and placed them on her face. She was surprised, but didn’t remove them as he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a red bandana. Handing it to her, he said, “Do it for me?” with a smoulder that nearly made Haylen’s eyes roll out of her head.

* * *

The wood of the church creaked in the utter darkness. Haylen sat in a burnt pew, bandana over the bottom half of her face. The sunglasses made it difficult to see, and there was no moon to illuminate the night, so she closed her eyes. Deacon stood at the entrance holding a rifle. He watched Haylen’s head droop several times. He checked the street and saw no one coming, so he took to the pew with Haylen. She inhaled sharply and blinked quickly, trying to stay awake.

“Alright?” he asked. He tried to prop her up with his shoulder against hers.

“Yeah,” she muttered. They had been waiting for Stockton and the synth for two hours. Deacon had somehow convinced her to stay. He was half-worried that he wouldn’t see her again after this mission, but the fact that she was here with him, defying her faction, falling asleep among the enemy, meant that he had nothing to worry about. She would be back, he told himself, fully aware of how smug the assumption was.

Haylen couldn’t hold out any longer. She started slowly drifting sideways then her cheek found rest on Deacon’s shoulder. Surprise crossed his face but he dared not move to disturb her. She didn’t snore, didn’t mumble, and slept peacefully with her face resting just enough that her lips parted and showed her front teeth.

Having his back to the door was unlike him, but he kept his head turned to watch it and his rifle pressed against his free shoulder.

A scuffle by the church entrance made his ears perk. Stockton coughed to make himself known, leaving Deacon to relax his grip on the gun. The old man entered the building and gave a nod to the Railroad agent. Deacon returned it then gently nudged Haylen with his arm. “They’re here,” he said softly.

Haylen roused and a large, silent yawn was hidden behind her bandana. She rubbed her eyes under the sunglasses, then realized Deacon was sitting beside her. Embarrassment coursed through her and she was glad he could not see her red cheeks between the cover of night and the accessories. He said nothing about it, however, and stood to greet his friend, who was followed by a young man with messy brown hair and a ragged blue coat.

“We both brought a friend I see,” Stockton said, looking to Haylen.

“That’s Agent Red,” Deacon replied. As she moved beside Deacon, Haylen fumbled with the laser pistol he had earlier provided her.

“And this is H2-22.” Stockton motioned towards the other man whose sad eyes only looked away. He said nothing and made no greeting.

Eyes now wide, Haylen asked, “He’s...?”

“Yeah,” Deacon interrupted. “How are you doing, buddy?” he asked the stranger.

“I, uh… Mr. Stockton told me it’s best I don’t say much.” His voice was shaky and scared.

“Good man,” Stockton said affirmatively. He went to a window at the church’s front and lit a lantern. “We’ll just wait for the contact who will lead you to the safehouse.” He waved for H2-22 to sit down in a pew, and the synth complied.

As they waited, silence hung stiffly, almost uncomfortably for Haylen. Deacon noticed. “Talk to him,” he whispered.

“To the synth?” she asked. Deacon wore annoyance well. Even when it seemed like he was about to start lecturing her, she thought his face held a fair amount of patience. Not everyone thought synths were worth the time of day, he understood that, but he could only take so much bigotry before he would break out a sermon. Haylen, feeling guilty about her tone, went to sit beside H2-22.

She made sure to leave ample space between them. The poor thing seemed absolutely distraught. Haylen knew nothing about his situation, nor where they were going to bring him.

“I’m Red,” she said hesitantly.

The synth gave a cautious look to Stockton then said, “H2.”

“You escaped the Institute?”

He nodded slowly, head down.

“That’s incredible,” she gaped, but his glistening eyes and dropped shoulders told her not to press the matter. “I’m from Capital Wasteland,” she offered.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, it’s a place not too far away. It used to be the capital of this country. It’s where the country’s leader lived. It’s rough out there, but there’s so much worth seeing.”

“I hope I get to see it then,” he said with something like a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“You ‘hope’?” she asked in confusion at the expression of his emotion. It was more condescending than she had meant, but she was echoing the tone Elder Maxson used in his speeches, and every member of the Brotherhood strived to be like Maxson.

As H2 fumbled for a response, a man in a black leather jacket jogged into the church.


	6. Raiders

“Let’s move,” High Rise said as Stockton waved goodbye to the group from the church. The Railroad contact was in charge of helping the synth reach the safehouse called Ticonderoga. He seemed nice enough, Haylen thought, but she was wary of anyone in the opposing faction who might shoot her dead the moment they found out she was Brotherhood. Sure, Deacon had been kind, but she knew it was either because he thought he could get information out of her or because he hoped she’d switch sides. She pitied him for wasting his time believing either.

The autumn breeze billowed through her bouncing orange hair as she ran, laser pistol in hand, between H2 and High Rise with Deacon taking up the rear. The bandana Deacon had given her remained tight over her nose.

It wasn’t long before they came across a band of raiders asking for a toll. High Rise had some choice words for them after they resisted his attempts at persuading them to stand down. They didn’t like that.

It was Deacon who fired the first shot as the raider leader reached for his gun. The .45 round echoed in the night air before the rest of the gang scrambled for their weapons.

H2 yelped in terror, never having heard a gun or even seen much conflict… beyond the beating of a fellow synth who did not complete his chores quickly enough for an Institute worker. The images of this flashed in his mind as he cringed, hands holding his head.

High Rise whipped out a switchblade and charged a woman who fired two rounds at him. He dodged before meeting her gut with his blade. She cried out and toppled over.

Haylen, no stranger to a gunfight, fell into action. Gripping her laser pistol with two hands, she shot down a raider charging her with a splintered pool cue. Another man lit a molotov cocktail behind a tree when he saw his comrade hit the ground.

“Taste this, bitch!” He tossed the fiery grenade high at an angle so it would land right at her feet.

A panicked expression on her face, Haylen was about to leap out of the way when Deacon snatched the bottle from the air, spun around, and hurled it back into the sky. Instead of it crashing down to the cobblestones, the bottle smashed on the corner of a roof where a Raider had been lining up a shot down his scope. He screamed in agony as the alcohol-fueled flames overtook him. Haylen charged the tree and fired off two rounds which only seared the bark as the raider ducked behind it. Bullets whizzed past her as he dared a few shots from his hiding place.

The raider cursed, having spent his magazine, and he fumbled to reload. Haylen was suddenly upon him and grabbed his hands as he snapped the clip into place. They struggled for a moment, grunting as the raider’s finger found its way onto the trigger. As they fought, the gun smashed into her face, breaking a lense on the sunglasses Deacon lent her.

A few shots rang out in the night during the fight. Haylen was not the largest of creatures and the man was gaining the upperhand as she struggled to keep the gun pointed away from her.

In a moment of great fury, she screamed as she clutched the gun away from her with one hand and all her strength. With her free hand, she forcefully landed several punches into the nose of the raider, breaking it immediately. As he cried out and another shot went off into the side of a building somewhere, she punched him again and again. In the teeth, in his eye, in the broken nose— relentlessly, shouting with each movement, until his struggling stopped and his limp hand dropped the gun.

She sat panting atop the raider as he let out an exhausted sigh before passing out. Haylen looked disgusted as she stood, left hand still in a tight fist. She tugged the bandana downwards, off her nose, to make her breathing easier. She then threw off the broken sunglasses.

“You okay?” Deacon asked as he approached Haylen.

“Fine,” she said in a surprisingly cheery voice. She inhaled deeply and gave a final sigh as her breath finally caught up. “Woo!” It had been a fair few months since she had seen any real action but her reflexes were sharp through the Brotherhood’s constant training. Deacon couldn’t help but meet her smile with his own. He was impressed with her skill.

Haylen noticed his expression, but hers slowly faded when she saw his genuine gladness. Her eyes flitted away in embarrassment and she noticed High Rise had run to the side of H2 who was retching to vomit. Haylen’s brow turned worried and she walked to the synth’s side.

“Is he alright?” Haylen asked High Rise.

“I think he’ll be fine,” the Railroad agent replied, squeezing H2’s shoulder with one hand. The synth was bent over, hands on his knees. “But you,” High Rise started.

Deacon approached, hands in pockets. “She is something else, man,” High Rise said to his friend. “Ain’t have to ask this one if she’s got a geiger counter. She’s fighting with passion.”

“Got that right,” Deacon replied, winking at Haylen whose cheeks flashed red under the light of the moon. “She’ll make a fine Railroad agent.” The blushing faded and she pursed her lips together, shaking her head with a slow blink.

“Sorry if I’m too underprepared for your little club, but my geiger’s back at HQ.”

High Rise chuckled but it faded quickly as he noticed Haylen did not reciprocate the laugh. He squinted and turned his head slightly.

“Do you have a geiger counter?” he asked, craning his neck towards her as he awaited the correct response.

“I just said ‘no.’”

“Ho, boy,” Deacon said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Deacon, the fuck?” High Rise asked sharply in disbelief.

“She’s cool, man. We’re transporting a synth, she just saved our asses, and we’re almost to Ticon.”

“If she hasn’t been sworn it, it means Dez don’t trust her. It means she’s not 100% on board. It means she’s dangerous.” He spoke with vigorous gestures. “You want us to lead her straight to a safehouse?”

“C’mon, High Rise. I trust her. Isn’t that good enough?” Deacon stretched his arms out and lifted his brows.

High Rise thought about it for a moment. “Deacon, I know you. I trust you. But this goes beyond you and me. This is about him.” He pointed heartily to H2. “If anything happens to him, or to any of us as result of her being here,” he approached Deacon and stood uncomfortably close. Their noses almost touched and High Rise’s tone was serious. “It’s on you.”

Deacon nodded and lowered his arms. “It’s on me.”

“Is that okay?” H2 spoke up, wiping the edge of his mouth with the back of a gloved hand. “Am I going to be safe? Can we trust her?”

High Rise looked to Deacon who looked to Haylen. Her confusion about the geiger counter signal waned as she saw the desperation in the synth’s eyes.

“You can trust me,” she said, and she meant it.


	7. Victory

“Thank you for your help,” H2-22 managed among his shivering. The night was fairly cool, but Haylen knew the shaking was more nerves than anything. The four stood at the base of the Ticonderoga Safehouse, a tall metal building on the river.

“Not a problem,” she replied. Not only had they taken down the raiders, but a group of mongrel dogs crossed their path on the way to Ticonderoga as well, one of which nearly bit a few fingers off H2 before Haylen intervened.

“Really.” H2 looked from Haylen to Deacon then back. “It’s good to know there are people willing to fight for us synths.”

Haylen winced slightly. H2 seemed kind and very likeable, but this was the exact opposite of her job. Guilt surged through her and her chest felt tight. She could say nothing but she gave a half-hearted smile on one side.

Deacon, standing beside the Scribe, placed a hand on her shoulder. She looked over to him, but he only gave H2 a hearty nod.

“I’m still trusting you on this, Deac. She better be cool.” High Rise extended a hand to his friend.

“You don’t need to worry about her,” he said, giving Haylen’s shoulder a quick squeeze before reaching for High Rise’s hand.

“I hope not. Thanks for getting us here,” he told the Scribe. “Let’s get going, H2.” He motioned the synth to follow him inside the tall building. H2 gave a soft smile towards Deacon and Haylen, then followed High Rise inside.

***

Outside Wattz Electronics, Haylen sat atop a brick half-wall, legs hanging over, her feet swinging back and forth against each other.

“Sorry about the glasses,” she offered.

“Don’t be. I can easily find more.” He was beside her looking towards the Railroad headquarters, forearms resting over his spread knees. “So what do you think? Think the Railroad does some good work?”

“That guy-- that synth, he seemed like he really needed help.”

“They’re not all so bad, huh?”

“Danse wasn’t. He was a great officer. Proud, supportive, fiercely loyal.”

“Trust me, I know. Even after getting the boot, he was still trying to sell the Brotherhood of Steel as some perfect regime of justice.” Deacon sat up straight and stretched his back and shoulders.

“I know it’s not,” Haylen hesitated, “but it’s all I have.” She pulled a clover from a patch of grass growing on the wall beside her. She rolled it in her fingers before throwing it away from her. It didn’t go far, and gently drifted to the gravel below. “I joined the Brotherhood, I’ll admit, for selfish reasons. I wanted to see the Wastelands. I wanted to see things like Bunker Hill.”

“But instead, you’re ordered to help destroy people like H2.” He was worried it was too harsh. 

Haylen exhaled sharply through her nose. “You have to understand,” she began, measuring her words carefully. “You and I have a common enemy. We can’t know who’s working for them.”

“You can have a pretty good idea if you take time to scope a situation out.”

“We don’t have time,” she replied quickly, her voice raising higher than she had meant. “It’s us or them.” She turned her head away from him.

Deacon sat in silence, waiting for her to turn back and meet his eyes, but she didn’t. “Is that how you feel about the Railroad?”

There they were- those hazel eyes found his as she looked over. They were full of sadness. Her mouth hung barely open and she pursed her lips as she released a shuddering breath. She said nothing.

Deacon cocked his head to the side gently, raising his jaw a bit, as if to pose the question again. He blinked in expectation. She dared not look away, but she had no words for him.

“Amanda.” He leaned towards her, his face lingering just a bit higher than hers, closer than it had dared to be before. She could not move away, though her mind told her to. ‘Go,’ she warned herself. But she stayed and even found herself moving nearer. Deacon’s eyes flitted around her face-- those freckles, her unsure eyebrows, an untreated cut a raider had given her an hour ago-- enticing, somehow, but neither so much as her soft, pink lips. She watched as his eyes danced and as they finally settled on her mouth. He leaned in.

Sternly and angrily, she finally replied, “Yes.” Haylen backed away and slid off the half-wall. She marched across the Wattz Electronics lot and past the building, not bothering to go inside and use the tunnel.

Deacon watched, not entirely shocked, but hurt nonetheless. He made no movement to follow her, despite the dangers that may be on her journey. He knew she could handle herself. He had known for so long. Haylen had sought a companion several times. He thought he could quell that desire but now he cursed himself. Of course Haylen was meant to be independent after all. She didn’t need his help-- she didn’t need him in any sense.

After the Scribe was out of sight, Deacon hopped from the wall and walked back to the HQ. All the lights were off save for a lamp in Desdemona’s office and a few agents’ flashlights in their bunks as they silently went over paperwork. As Deacon entered the building, Dez looked down from her raised room. He could feel her curious look about ‘Agent Red’ but he knew better than to meet it right now. They would discuss it later, if and when he felt like answering her questions. She was used to putting up with his unruliness.

He climbed into his bunk. Removing his jacket, Deacon noticed the yellow Railroad cross-stitch inside. Nora had sewn it on for him months ago before she left with Danse. Reminded of another failure, he angrily chucked the jacket across the large open room, meaning for it to land in the aisle between agent bunks. Instead, it landed over Drummer Boy’s face in his own bed. Deacon cringed as Drummer was suddenly woken and lifted the garment off his head. He rolled over to see from where it came.

“Fuck off,” he whispered as he threw the jacket back at Deacon who caught it up and mouthed an apology. “Everything cool?” Drummer asked.

Deacon replied with a shrug. He reached under his bunk and pulled out a pair of sunglasses from a pair of dirty pants. He placed them on and flopped down heartily onto his back with his hands folded on his stomach. He stared at the ceiling, waiting for the thoughts of those lips to fade and for sleep to come. The image of Haylen’s sad eyes was interrupted by Drummer’s face suddenly appearing.

“What, man?” Deacon asked, trying to swat Drummer away.

“What happened?” he asked impatiently.

“Nothing, Drum. I’m cool as a cucumber.” Deacon gave half a smile before rolling over.

Drummer scoffed. “C’mon, Deac.” His socks quietly, clamily pattered away on the stained concrete floor.

Deacon rolled his eyes before turning over to see where his friend was headed. Down the stairs and at his desk, Drummer Boy pulled two bottles from a large drawer. Deacon approached, and took a seat in a nearby chair. Drummer offered him a bottle.

“Hot damn, Drum, is this Victory?” He took the red bottle and examined the label.

“Straight from New Vegas,” he beamed. “Original design, not a Nuka World imitation. Just for my bud.”

“Well, I am honored.” Deacon smiled. “But I’m not sure I deserve it right now.”

“Fuck off with that. You’ve done more for the Railroad than any of us. When we finally bag the Institute, I know you’ll be to thank.”

“Think so, huh?” Drummer twisted the cap from his drink and it fizzed, but Deacon only held the drink by the neck and swung it gently.

“So tell me what’s up. That new recruit giving you trouble?”

“I think I’m more trouble for her.”

“Scared to lose another one, huh?”

Deacon’s eyes were offended and angry, not that Drummer could tell behind the dark lenses. But Deacon’s frown gave him away. He was usually efficient in masking his emotions, but the mention of Nora was too low a blow.

“A recruit, I mean,” he said, putting his hands up in defense. “But that scowl fills in the blanks nicely, thank you. She’s a cutie. And so was Wanderer.” He took a sip of the Victory.

“I don’t have time for this.” Deacon stood and set the drink on Drummer’s desk.

“Hey, man, I’m sorry. I don’t want to see you like last time. Everyone saw it, the way you looked at her. Nora was something else. Even I had my eyes on her, though I knew I was no match for soldier boy, or you for that matter.”

Deacon stood with his back turned, hands about ready to curl into fists. He had prided himself on hiding everything, but Drummer had known him too long. He learned from the best to watch without being noticed, and Drummer had watched the way Deacon would smile genuinely when telling Nora lies or the way he would rub his thumb over the cross-stitch patch after she had gone.

“Did you make a move?” Drummer took a sip.

“Tried to,” Deacon said after a long while. He turned back around and grabbed the soda from the desk.

“Damn man, abusing your rank, putting the moves on fresh recruits.”

“Shut up.”

Drummer laughed and rubbed his growing beard. “But seriously, my advice? Give it time. Either she’ll come back for you or you go get her.”

Deacon tried to twist the lid from his bottle to no avail. He put the lid under his shirt to try again.

“You know you can tell me things, right? Keeping it to yourself all the time, I think it takes a toll on you.”

Deacon finally slipped the cap off the bottle but the cola burst out from under the lid and spouted all over him, staining his white shirt with the orange liquid. Drummer curled his lips inward to stifle a laugh.

“Good talk,” Deacon smiled, face dripping with sugary liquid. He held his drink up in a toast before throwing his head back and chugging the cola.


	8. Ticon

A month had passed with no word from Haylen. He worried about her. The wounds she procured from helping him on the Ticon mission could have given her away and she might be in trouble with the Brotherhood. He should have taken it one thing at a time, putting the Railroad before himself. Of course she couldn’t like him the way he thought of her. After all, he had known her over a year longer than she had him, scouting out Paladin Danse’s group when they arrived in the Commonwealth, seeing Haylen at her best and worst, coming to love her personality and quirks. In contrast, she had met with him twice on her own accord. Drummer was right-- these things take time, and Deacon had far more time with her than she did with him. He had moved too quickly and put his own feelings before the Railroad, jeopardizing her opportunity to recant the Brotherhood.

Deacon grew restless, but tried to stay busy. The Railroad had been organizing a team to return to the crypt under the Old North Church to reclaim any surviving material. From Haylen’s information, Deacon knew it was all untouched since the Brotherhood of Steel hadn’t found the true safehouse after all. At his vague suggestion to search the tunnels, Dez allowed for a team to be put together. Glory was appointed to be among them, in case the Brotherhood had stuck around, but of course Deacon knew they hadn’t.

The day came for the team to set out for the church. Deacon oversaw the preparations. He stood over his work station, showing a new agent the layout of the crypts on a crudely-drawn map. Glory approached and sat on his desk, one leg on the floor.

“Go over it again on your way there,” Deacon told the new recruit who thanked him for his time and walked away.

“Dez has been asking about the girl.” Glory was working on a cigarette. Deacon stifled a frown. He too wondered why Haylen hadn’t returned. Would his attempt at kissing her damage her softened feelings towards the Railroad? Was he really so undesirable? Was she putting together her own team of Brotherhood soldiers to wreck the new Railroad headquarters and kill them all? No, of course she wasn’t. He trusted her that much.

Glory noticed Deacon was distracted, whether worried about the trip to the tunnels or something else. “Dez says she doesn’t want any loose ends blabbing about the safehouse. Can’t blame her.” She took a drag. Deacon gave no reply and opened a folder on his desk, going over notes for another mission. Glory didn’t like being ignored, but Deacon was quiet any day of the week, making his silence not altogether unusual. “Well,” she said realizing Deacon wasn’t up for talking, “I hope you know where she stands.” Glory snuffed the cigarette in the ashtray on Deacon’s desk and joined the group of agents about to embark for the old HQ. They had readied their gear and prepared to leave.

“I don’t know,” Deacon said quietly to himself, “but I’m going to find out.” He took the denim jacket from the back of his desk chair and slid his arms into it. He followed Glory’s group to the main entrance and meant to see them off, but the door flew open just as he reached it.

Drummer stood in the threshold, gripping his messenger bag’s strap against his heaving chest. He was soaked from both rain and sweat. “Something’s happened at Ticon.”

***

The Wastelands between Wattz Electronics and the Ticonderoga safehouse were silent save for the frantic feet of Railroad agents. Drummer and Glory were just behind Deacon who ran wildly. Were he not so distracted by the tragedy, he would have been impressed by Glory’s speed considering the minigun she lugged on her hip, and in a steady rain no less. The sun had gone from the sky and the storm clouds hid the moon.

Drummer had explained that he was running a dead drop near Monsignor Plaza when he heard an explosion. He saw smoke and heard gunfire from the south, from the direction of Ticon. He had apologized for not having investigated further, but Deacon assured him he did the right thing in gaining numbers for recon. Deacon had taken the group meant to search the crypts with him. They had already been prepared for a trek and possibly battle.

When they were a few blocks away from Ticonderoga, the infamous whirring of blades resounded overhead. A vertibird flew rapidly from behind them and towards the safehouse.

“No,” Deacon whispered. That would mean the Brotherhood were involved. He cursed loudly and his brisk run became his quickest sprint. The others struggled to keep up.

When they finally caught him, Deacon was glancing around the corner of a nearby building, investigating Ticon from a safe distance. Without looking, he put up a fist to halt his fellow agents. Drummer crept to Deacon’s side and surveyed the safehouse.

The vertibird had landed on the street between Ticon and the Charles River. All along the bottom of the building were Brotherhood soldiers: Knights, Scribes, Paladins, some in power armor. The building was in tatters. Sections of wall had fallen onto the lot below and Deacon could see into the lobby where scorch marks from a severe laser battle lined the interior. The Brotherhood higher-ups shouted orders as bodies were pulled from the rubble-- all Railroad agents. Not a Brotherhood body was seen as Deacon struggled to recognize lost friends among the dead, and not a Railroad agent was among the living.

Eventually, inevitably, High Rise was recovered from the wreckage.

“Is that…” Glory began. “Those bastards!” She moved to approach, minigun at the ready, but Deacon halted her, both hands on her shoulders. His head hung low between his arms. When he managed to fight off incoming tears, he met Glory’s eyes. “We need to be smart here.” When Glory settled, teeth still gritted, Deacon released her and turned back to observe the Brotherhood from his place around the corner.

A broad-shouldered Paladin in an orange jumpsuit uniform approached High Rise’s body as it lay in the arms of an armored Knight.

“This is the last one, Paladin,” said the Knight. “No more bodies. No survivors.” Deacon almost counted it a blessing that H2-22’s body was not among those he saw, but he knew the synth might have undergone a face change since his arrival at Ticon. It was too soon to be hopeful.

“Thank you, Knight,” replied the Paladin. “I’ll send the Scribes in for salvage then. Put him with the others.”

“Yes, Paladin Rhys.”

Deacon’s eyes widened. Rhys! He looked so different now. His beard had come in fuller and his shaved head was now in the style of an undercut, long on the top only, as if imitating Maxson’s style. Rhys was as fanatic as Danse about the Brotherhood, but risking his life to save his friend, even after discovering he was a synth, meant he was rational at times.

“Drummer, with me. Glory, stay here with the others.”

“Are you crazy?” the proclaimed Angel of Death asked, wringing the handles of the minigun tightly. “What are you thinking?”

“There could be sensitive Railroad information in there. We can’t let the Brotherhood get their hands on it. I’ll see what I can recover before they get to it.”

“Deacon, you coward,” she hissed. Glory had always preferred to handle things guns blazing.

He only smiled and removed the sunglasses from his face. If Haylen recognized him solely because of the shades, best not risk Rhys doing the same. Folding the glasses, he fastened them on Glory’s collar and winked at her. “Right now, we’re outnumbered. But if anything happens to me, you’ll be so upset by my death that you’ll be able to take them all on. You’re welcome.” He snapped and pointed at her, at which she rolled her eyes.

“Let’s go, Drum.” Deacon turned and left the cover of the nearby building, marching towards Paladin Rhys.

“You’re the boss,” Drummer replied hesitantly. He looked back at Glory who gave him a nod for confidence.

“Excuse me!” Deacon called to the Paladin. Two Knights pointed their weapons at him, calling for him to halt. Deacon put his hands up and slowed his pace. “Sorry, I was just wondering what’s going on here.”

“Who are you?” Paladin Rhys asked.

“We’re settlers heading to Bunker Hill to hire a new farmhand. We saw the smoke and were wondering if there was anything we could do to help.”

Rhys was skeptical of everyone outside of the Brotherhood. Why would they waste their lives on anything but the glorious regime? Nevertheless, there were plenty of soldiers around to keep an eye on the two, so he eventually nodded and accepted the story, seeing it as an opportunity to show civilians the helpful nature of the Brotherhood.

“Very well,” Rhys said. “I’ll put you both under charge of our Senior Scribe and her Initiates.” He glanced around in search of the officer. “Ah, Haylen!” he called across the lot.


	9. Promotion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finals week! That means that, while I might fail geology, I'll be able to work on this fic very soon!! Thank you for your support and comments!

Without Deacon having noticed, Haylen had stepped off the vertibird and was awaiting orders. She wore her field scribe outfit, hood hiding her hair, that red turtleneck Deacon hated.

The Scribe jogged over to greet them. “Here, Paladin Rhys.” An involuntary sound of shock escaped her throat when she saw Deacon. The same almost happened to him, but he would not jeopardize the surviving Railroad information inside Ticon.

Drummer was confused. He looked from Haylen to Deacon. He wanted to give his friend the benefit of the doubt, but he couldn’t believe his eyes. Her rank as a Senior Scribe meant that she had been a member of the Brotherhood of Steel for some time. Surely Deacon, the best damn agent the Railroad had, would have known about her affiliation. Yet he had the gall to bring her to their HQ? Then on a mission straight to the very Railroad safehouse it seemed they had just overrun? Drummer clenched his jaw. If Deacon truly deserved it and if they made it out of this alive, Drummer would berate him later.

“Uh, yes sir?” Haylen asked of Rhys.

“Take your Initiates and these two civilians up through the building. See what you can find and they can help you carry things out.”

“Yessir,” she said, crossing her fist over her chest in salute. “Follow me, gentlemen.”

Drummer and Deacon followed Haylen to her group of Scribe Initiates. “We’re headed up. Keep an eye out for any useful technical documents or the like.” Deacon cringed. There was probably clear evidence of the Railroad’s presence at Ticon, if not an abundance of data on where other safehouses or dead drops might be located. Some safehouses would have to move, and the dead drops reassigned to other areas. This would be a huge headache, especially in regards to the safety of the hundreds of agents the Railroad had gained thanks to Nora’s advocacy, wherever she was.

Haylen lead her team up the steps in the main lobby and past an eating lounge on the next floor. They came to a room with several desks and round sets of drawers. “Ledo, Parson, search this room,” she told two of the three Initiates. “Report anything interesting to me foremost.”

“Yes, Senior Scribe Haylen.”

She continued up a fallen section of ceiling to the next floor, not seeing anything of importance until they continued climbing levels and found a room with fallen Protectrons. She ordered the third Initiate to search them and report any findings to her. “You two, with me,” she said to the civilians.

“Are you sure, Senior Scribe Haylen?” asked the Initiate. “Going alone with them, I mean.”

“It’s alright,” she assured him. “Paladin Rhys trusts them.” She shifted her serious eyes to Deacon. “And if they try anything, they should know there’s a small army of Brotherhood outside and they wouldn’t get far.”

“Of course. Sorry, Senior Scribe.”

Haylen motioned away the apology and continued to the next floor with Deacon and Drummer. Bullet holes and scorch marks lined the walls. Rooms once filled with hope and good people were covered in blood.

On the highest floor, Haylen stopped at the last room. There was a desk and terminal, as well as a single bed, a chair, and a bookshelf near the room’s entrance. She spread her hands across the desk and leaned on it, taking a deep, audible breath.

“Senior Scribe, huh?” Deacon combed through a box of files on the bookshelf.

“That’s Brotherhood salvage, civilian,” Haylen said, noticing him removing a file and reading through it.

“Actually, it’s Railroad property,” he replied with a squinty, mocking smile.

She sighed. “I’m sorry about your friend.”

“Oh, yeah?” Deacon said cheerily with raised eyebrows. The sarcasm cut her deeply. Her condolences were sincere. He clapped the folder closed. “You should be. All the people he’s saved, all the good he’s done.” He suddenly noticed something on the bed behind Haylen, his eyes fixed on it. She followed his gaze to a yellow holotape on the bare mattress. In clear black letters, it was labeled “D & RED.”

Deacon moved towards it but Haylen snatched it up. She took a player from her messenger bag and popped the tape into the deck.

“The doctor said I could say goodbye.”

Deacon closed his eyes. It was H2-22’s voice. Haylen put a hand over her mouth.

“I’ve decided to have the operation to lose all my memories. I wanted to say goodbye. I’m sorry if you’re sad, but I... I have nightmares. And this world, the SRB, being hunted-- I just can't handle it. Everyone says I'll be safer if I start a new life. I know I'll- I’ll be happier. My only regret is I'll forget... Old Man Stockton, High Rise, and you two. Looking back, there's only fear. Worse than fear. But I will miss my new... friends.” Tears fell from Haylen’s eyes.

“It’s time, H2,” called a woman’s voice on the tape.

“I… thanks,” were H2’s final words for them. Haylen took a deep, shuddering breath. Her shoulders heaved once before she could control the crying. Deacon shook his head slowly.

“You want some space, boss?” Drummer asked.

Deacon waved his hand at his friend to let him know it was fine that he stayed. “After all we did for him… after the trust you knew he placed on you,” Deacon said to Haylen in his cool, crackling voice.

“You don’t understand anything,” she declared, standing up straight and meeting Deacon’s blue eyes.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he said angrily, his teeth bared. “I don’t understand how you could bring them here. After gaining H2’s trust, after Danse for fuck’s sake!”

“Deac,” Drummer started, hesitantly reaching a hand out to calm his friend.

“But that doesn’t matter.” Deacon mimed an exaggerated salute on his forehead. “Not to the new Senior Scribe!” Haylen’s eyes went light red around the edges and became watery again. “Promotion for finding a Railroad safehouse! Good job.” He clapped a few times.

“Why don’t you shut up?” she barked, her voice cracking.

As Deacon took a step towards Haylen, Drummer grabbed his wrist before his friend could retaliate Haylen’s words either physically or with his own.

There was a cough in the doorway. “Senior Scribe Haylen,” an Initiate said. “I’m… sorry to interrupt.”

The room was still. Haylen sniffed and turned around to quickly rub her eyes before turning to the Initiate. “It’s fine, Scribe. What is it?”

He entered the room and held out both hands, presenting something to Haylen. “Recovered from the rubble, ma’am.” It was the forearm and hand of a Generation 2 synth.


	10. Elder

“Looks like they were trying to prevent anyone from getting hold of any units for study,” offered the Scribe Initiate. “Luckily, they seemed to have overlooked this,” he said of the synth arm.

Deacon’s heart sank. He cursed aloud. The Initiate left the arm in Haylen’s hands.

“Great work, Initiate. We’ll bring it back to the Prydwen for research.”

The young man left Haylen alone with the civilians. After his footsteps were gone down the collapsed ramp outside the room, Drummer spoke up when he noticed Deacon struggling for words. “Look, I don’t know what your deal is,” he said to Haylen, “But I hope we can trust you. I’ll give you two some time.” He stepped out of the room and headed down the ramp.

Haylen placed the arm in her messenger bag.

Deacon struggled out, “Amanda…”

“Don’t,” she cut him off. She broadened her shoulders and lifted her head proudly. “Do you know why I went to the Railroad HQ that day? Despite my affiliation with the Brotherhood, despite my feelings towards synths, I wanted to know Danse was safe. But I got in too deep, especially when you… When we were talking after coming to this place. I regret that now.”

He didn’t move a muscle as her speech went on, but his insides curdled. The guilt hit him hard. Ticon was the Institute’s doing. How could he have jumped so quickly to conclusions, and of someone about whom he had come to care so much?

“I don’t know what this is,” she said shaking her head with a nervous smile, “–a chance to decide once and for all how I feel about synths? I thought it would end with Rhys destroying the Old North Church stairwell, but here I am. It’s too much to ask me to turn away from the people who’ve given me opportunity to follow my dream, to travel.”

“You said it yourself,” he said, looking her in the eye. “You never even get that chance.”

“At least it allowed me to meet some really great people,” she said quietly.

He was sure she meant Danse. She had deep respect for the former Paladin, some semblance of friendship, and even feelings for him at some point. Had she never shown sympathy for his being a synth, Haylen and Deacon would have never met. She’d have never seen the kind heart of H2-22. She’d have no idea the numbers of the Railroad. She’d have no leverage should she decide to turn against them now that Deacon had once again overstepped his bounds. He would blame himself if she turned his agency in now.

When an uncomfortable amount of quiet passed as Deacon was in thought, Haylen broke the silence with a heavy sigh. “What do we do now, Deacon?”

He wasn’t sure. He’d need to get the information out of Ticon somehow. Could he muster the audacity to ask for her help? Or would he have to try to do it behind her back? With all the soldiers outside, transferring so much information unnoticed would be nearly impossible. He could feel a book of matches in his back pocket beside a few cigarettes. He could try to burn the entire thing down.

As he considered his next move, the sound of whirling blades resounded outside the building, interrupting his thoughts.

Drummer stepped back into the room and looked to Deacon for orders, who looked at Haylen for a few desperate seconds, almost begging her to come up with something to help the Railroad. Her sad eyes gave him nothing and did not blink, but held sternly to his brief gaze as he backed out of the room. She sighed before following him out.

Drummer and Deacon rushed down the ramp down the hall and moved to the nearest window. Haylen was soon behind them and watched as a vertibird landed on the street beside the Charles River. The rainfall had become gentler and the bodies of the fallen Railroad agents were covered with tarps.

Another Initiate, a female, approached Haylen from a lower level. With a salute across the chest, she began, “Senior Scribe Haylen. We received word over the radio. Elder Maxson is landing and wishes to speak with you. Initiate Connors called him in. He said you and the Elder would need to hear about something important. He said the other Senior Scribes and the Proctors would also need to be informed once you’re back to the Prydwen.”

“Th-thank you for the information,” Haylen managed. “I’ll be down to meet him soon.”

Once the Initiate had left them, Drummer cursed and shook his head in disgust. The Brotherhood knew: the Institute attack was against the Railroad and this was a safehouse potentially filled with information.

“Dammit,” she said, hitting the side of her fist against the steel wall. “I told them to report any findings to me!”

“What can we do?” Deacon looked to Haylen.

She took a deep breath, in through her freckled nose, out through her peach lips. She tried to ignore the metallic reek of dried blood. “It can’t be helped. Maxson will know. That’s the end of it.” She refused to look up at either of them. “I’m sorry.”

Deacon could only stare, eyes bobbing around her face as he waited for her to make a move. This couldn’t be it. Ticon didn’t hold much. That was Drummer’s job: memorize everything and be able to recite it so that a paper trail couldn’t be found. But the Railroad had hundred of agents, partially thanks to Nora’s endorsement. Despite their training warning them against it, any number of them could have kept written journals, made terminal entries, had holotapes, or jotted down notes to help them find dead drops or safehouses. Files filled with codewords and nicknames that could be deciphered were surely all over Ticon. There was certainly something that would lead the Brotherhood of Steel to another safehouse, if not the headquarters.

Months ago, Nora had convinced the Railroad not to attack the Brotherhood. Overtaking the Cambridge Police Station and taking down the Prydwen would have been easy enough, but Nora begged them to find another way. If they did go through with it, Nora would have never forgiven Deacon for the loss of life, and Danse might have single-handedly retaliated with the deaths of every Railroad agent he could find. Deacon wasn’t sure which would have been worse. He managed to convince Desdemona that the Institute was their enemy foremost, and that the Brotherhood may be reasoned with in time. He never regretted that more than right now.

“We need to get out of here,” Drummer said, trying to stifle his panic.

Deacon nodded, still looking at Haylen. “Go to Glory. Tell her to take her team to the backup location and start prepping it for temp headquarters. Then head back to HQ. Tell Dez I’m sorry we have to move again.”

“What about you?” Drummer asked.

“I’ll join you at the backup soon. Probably.”

Drummer nodded in acceptance of his orders, then gave his friend a hearty hug. Deacon reciprocated with a tight squeeze before sending Drummer off. He was left alone with Haylen again.

“I told you,” Haylen said looking out the window as she watched Maxson dismount the vertibird, “nothing can be done.” She smoothed her uniform and pinched her cheeks. Deacon squinted. Did this girl fall for anyone? Or was she doing it simply because Maxson was someone worth impressing? She took a deep breath and held it in. Without looking to Deacon, she started for the lower levels.

“Haylen,” he called, left behind. “Haylen,” he said louder, but she would not stop. “Amanda!” She was gone around a corner. Deacon grinded his teeth and his eyes searched the air for answers. What could he do? There wasn’t much time.

He looked back out the window and watched as the Initiate called Connors spoke with Elder Maxson. Deacon recognized him from the group of Initiates Haylen had left on the second story. The Elder stood in a way which commanded respect, chest out, jaw tight, hands clasped behind his back. As the Initiate spoke to him, the Elder nodded coolly, until his eyes suddenly widened and his thick brows became even more furrowed. That was it. The information had been transferred. The leader of the Brotherhood of Steel knew Ticonderoga was a Railroad safehouse, and whatever documentation Connors had was enough to surprise him, meaning danger for everyone Deacon loved.

As he watched Haylen on the street below approach Initiate Connors and Elder Maxson, Deacon made up his mind. Besides Haylen, only two members of the Brotherhood of Steel knew what Ticon truly was. Two people had to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, everyone! We're getting very near the end. Thank you for all your support via kudos and comments! I appreciate it greatly. :)


	11. A Threat

Killing the leader of the Brotherhood of Steel would be no small task. Getting away with it would be the most difficult part, of course, but then, Deacon didn’t expect to. This would be it. He shrugged to himself as he took a 10mm pistol from the back of his belt under his denim jacket. He recalled having joked with Glory about his death here. As he checked the rounds, he couldn’t help but smirk. Too bad she’d miss him going out in a blaze of the Brotherhood’s red lasers. She’d be proud, he thought.

The Railroad was the most important thing in his life. It was all he had left after the incident all those years ago. Hiding the pistol in his belt once more, Deacon wondered if his work to save synths was enough penance for the sins of his past.

He made his way downstairs, past the scribe initiates as they continued their search through the wreckage. As he approached the lowest floor, Deacon spotted Haylen nearing the Elder. Maxson had hardly changed since Deacon had last seen him. When Danse and Nora were repudiated, Deacon had been there, ever watchful of the Vault 111 survivor who had been steadily climbing the ranks of the Railroad’s enemy.

Deacon now watched from what was once a secretary’s greeting desk in the skyscraper’s lobby.

“Senior Scribe Haylen,” said the Elder’s gruff voice as the woman approached.

His demeanor impressed Deacon, but the Railroad agent also had to chuckle. In a messed up, totalitarian sort of way, and over a decade Deacon’s junior, Arthur Maxson was a very accomplished man of only twenty.

“Elder Maxson.” Haylen saluted across her chest then stood at attention.

After exchanging greetings, the trio of Maxson, Haylen, and Initiate Connors spoke in hushed tones, much too far for Deacon to eavesdrop. Regardless, he didn’t need to hear. The secret was out, and it was time to act before the Elder could inform every scribe the Brotherhood had to begin an in-depth investigation right away.

It was time.

Deacon stepped out from behind the desk. His step was slow at first, but quickened steadily as he strode into the street and towards the vertibird. Rain pattered on the blacktop and the tarps covering the bodies of his fallen friends.

His pace caught the attention of several soldiers, who called out for him to stop, but Deacon did not slow. He moved his hand to his back, fingers gripping the handle of the pistol under his jacket.

The Elder was facing the building from which Deacon came, and Haylen’s back was to it.

“Do you realize what you’re doing?” Maxson asked coldly, but not to Deacon. He was staring intensely into Haylen’s eyes. Deacon’s paced persisted. From the corner of her vision, Haylen spotted him. With all the coolness of expecting his next action, Haylen thrust out an arm behind her and halted her friend.

Deacon’s unshaded eyes were unrelenting, while the Elder wore an expression of surprise at the man’s approach.

“I understand,” she said to Maxson. Deacon tried to continue forward, but Haylen made a fist, clutching his shirt. She did not look back at him, but kept her eyes locked with the Elder’s.

“And this man?” Arthur gritted his teeth as he glared at Deacon who glared back with ferocity.

“With them,” she admitted.

Heavy boots approached Deacon from behind. A hand gripped his shoulder and a tighter one fiercely seized his fingers around the pistol. Deacon closed his eyes as he wriggled against the grasp. “Fuck,” he whispered, hanging his head. His chance was gone. He could have shoved Haylen aside. He could have shot the Elder and the Initiate even with her holding him back. He was about to lose his life for nothing. It was fitting, he thought, dying without being a hero— dying for no reason. He looked back up and caught the Elder looking from him back to Haylen.

He seemed to be deciding something as Haylen’s stern eyes did not falter.

“A Senior Scribe, a soldier who has sworn her life to the Brotherhood, who has watched her brothers and sisters fall beside her in battle, who has served faithfully for years… betray everything we stand for?” Maxson asked in disbelief.

“I don’t want another one of your speeches,” Haylen replied curtly. “I want you to walk. Clear this site of soldiers, get in your ‘bird, and go back to the Prydwen.”

She had seen him in a perpetual state of fury since the day she signed on to the Brotherhood back in Capital Wasteland. This young man, impressive in lineage and training, had inspired her and had given her the chance to be among the first soldiers to glimpse a new frontier for the regime. All that was behind her now, and the only thing ahead was uncertainty.

Maxson, too, recalled the day he had met Haylen. A timid, small creature with wanderlust so strong that she was pliable— an excellent candidate for reconnaissance, but in the end, just another name and number on a holotag.

“Walk,” she commanded, “or everyone will know about Danse.”

Deacon watched in horror as Elder Maxson took his laser pistol from his thigh holster and thrust the square barrel’s end under Haylen’s jaw as he held her in place by her arm. “I’ve got a better idea.”

Many soldiers had stopped to watch the scene. Senior Scribe Haylen was held at gunpoint by Elder Maxson. Initiate Connors had backed against the vertibird, gasping. A stranger was being restrained with his hand on what some could see was a pistol.

Deacon struggled violently against his captor to no avail. “Let her go!!”

“Give me one reason,” Maxson said to Deacon, still looking intently into Haylen’s now-watering eyes.

Suddenly, Deacon’s shoulder was released, but the grip on his back hand remained. The Railroad agent, realizing he was partially free, readied himself to spin away from his captive arm and land a powerful blow into the jaw of the man holding him, but paused when he saw a gloved hand snatch Maxson’s wrist under the laser pistol.

“Because if you don’t,” said a cutting voice, “you’ll have me to answer to.”

It had been Paladin Rhys restraining Deacon. He now had a strong grip on Maxson, and Deacon looked up to watch the ever-angry face of the Paladin.

“I don’t know what this is about,” Rhys began, “but why are you threatening the Senior Scribe?”

“How dare you,” Maxson hissed, pulling his arm free of Rhys’s grip and releasing Haylen. “Am I surrounded by insolent traitors?!” It was loud enough for a few nearing soldiers to hear. Not one dared move, and few breathed.

“You’re surrounded by faithful people with your best interest at heart,” said Rhys. “Soldiers who would follow you to Hell. People not unlike Paladin Danse.” Maxson opened his mouth to argue, but Rhys interrupted. “It would be a shame for either of us to lose another friend.” The Paladin looked to Haylen.

The Senior Scribe spoke in a hushed but powerful tone to Maxson. “You preach about your infallible regime and morals, but you’ve compromised yourself already for Danse. I’m not asking you to change. I’m not asking you to stop chasing the Railroad. But let this safehouse go, let this man go, and I won’t say a word about Danse and Nora.”

Maxson paused, eyes glaring daggers through Haylen. “Connors, get the other scribes and move out,” he said through tight teeth. The scribe saluted and shakily ran off to collect his fellow initiates. Arthur shook his head as he handed Rhys his laser pistol. “Get the hell out of my sight.”

Rhys complied, releasing Deacon’s hand and nodding at Haylen who gave him a look of great appreciation.

Maxson flapped his duster, composed himself, then moved close to Deacon, their eyes inches away. “I want you out of here— now. And if I ever see you again, or if the Railroad ever threatens us, it’ll be not only all of your heads, but hers as well.” He pointed a strong finger at Haylen without looking. Deacon only glared back. Maxson exhaled sharply through his nose like a bull and marched away from the Senior Scribe and the Railroad agent.

Deacon stared hard at the ground for a while as Haylen collected her thoughts. She had her teeth clinched hard, trying to fight back the tears from the bravery she had mustered. But she failed, and the tears fell one after the other, rolling down her red cheeks while her brow remained stern.

As the vertibird’s blades began to spin, dust blew all around the street. Deacon heard Haylen’s soft sobs over the whirring of the rotors. Dust billowed all around them and the tarps over the Railroad’s dead flapped in the wind. The machine took flight as the remaining Brotherhood soldiers readied to clear out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's here, it's here!! After too dang long, another chapter!! This is the end, save for an epilogue coming up. :3


End file.
